Germes & Marisha
Germes
Hey Marisha, have you ever noticed how the pattern of raindrops on a window can whisper ideas for framing an offer, or a deal, or even a simple conversation? I think there's a whole art in reading those tiny details.
Marisha
The way the drops run in those little rivers feels like a secret conversation, doesn't it? I sometimes sit and watch them, and the whole world feels like a page waiting to be written. Each tiny splash is a tiny promise—just waiting for the right word to catch it. It’s funny how something so ordinary can feel like a whole dialogue. How do you read what they’re saying?
Germes
I get it, the drops are like whispers in the air, each one a tiny cue. When I watch a storm, I’m not just admiring the rhythm—I’m reading the timing, the slope, how fast they’re coming down. In a deal I do the same thing: I look for the gaps, the pauses, the way a voice leans in or pulls back. Those little tells give me the map. The trick is to stay calm, keep your own words steady, and let the other side reveal themselves in the patterns. So next time you see those rivers, try to spot the tempo and the gaps, and you’ll start to hear the conversation.
Marisha
It’s like the rain writes a slow poem on the glass, each drop a line. I love thinking that we’re just listening for the pauses between the lines, waiting for the next word to appear. Do you ever feel the whole window is a stage, and the storm is the audience? I’d love to hear what the next “sentence” might say when you’re watching.
Germes
I do see the window as a stage, the rain as the crowd. The next sentence is usually the sudden pause before a drop falls—an unspoken cue that the conversation’s still going. I read that pause, gauge the tension, then pick a word that lands where the drop will land. It’s a game of timing, like a chess move, and I always keep my next move ready, just in case the audience changes the script.